


A Swiftly Tilting Planet

by racketghost



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Canon Rewrite, Crowley's Mad Scientist Outfit, Desk Sex, First Times, Glove Kink, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Oral Sex, POV Alternating, Service Top Crowley (Good Omens), Smiting Makes Everyone Horny, The world is ending might as well fuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:01:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26819239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/racketghost/pseuds/racketghost
Summary: You know that scene where Crowley wears a ridiculous mad scientist outfit and decants holy water into a bucket and meanwhile Aziraphale is trying to phone God? This is that scene but if Aziraphale had considerably less chill.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 122
Kudos: 570





	A Swiftly Tilting Planet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [YamiSnuffles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/YamiSnuffles/gifts).



> Written (remarkably late) for my darling YamiSnuffles. Consider this a Homecoming proposal <3 
> 
> A/N: there is literally no plot to this oh my god. Also I use my own pretentious form of POV alternations in this. Don't @ me. 
> 
> The title comes from a poem by Conrad Aiken called _Morning Song of Senlin._

He’s had this dream. He knows how it goes.

He knows, for instance, that they race eternal against a clock with quickening hands, that time is ticking down to nothing. He knows at the end of this that the demons will crawl up from Hell, spit flame on the earth, slaughter the angels, break their wings. He’s dreamt of the end. He’s anticipated this. _He knows how it goes._

But in his dreams Aziraphale had always said _yes, of course, let’s go_. He had always followed him blind up to the myriad spare planets— no atmosphere— had helped him pick one or maybe two to settle on, live in, bed down.

He had never said, _we’re not friends_ , or, _I don’t even like you_. He had never been that hard-jawed and callous, unbreakable, impenetrable. He had not— never once— in all of Crowley’s many, many dreams— stood stalwart and unruffled on the pavement out in front of the bookshop and denied him, once, finally, _for all_. And so Crowley can now add, explicitly, to his dream, the singular and withering emotion that accompanies a spectacular showing of apology and grief, of groveling and frustration. He can add the face Aziraphale makes when he tells him, in front of an increasingly curious band of human onlookers, _no_. A no without conditions and a no without fine print. Capital letters. A very formal and stubborn period for both punctuation and emphasis.

No.

He will not join him in the stars and he will not accept or even acknowledge his apology.

No.

Perhaps it hadn’t been enough.

No, he thinks, remembers, _again._ It definitely had not been enough. He never has been. He never could be.

 _I apologize. Whatever I said, I’m sorry_. _I didn’t mean it_.

Crowley closes his eyes and curls his hands into fists, fingernails cutting little half-moons into his palm. He imagines all of the planets and their own little moons spinning away, the escape he will now not achieve.

Because he _isn’t_ leaving, not without Aziraphale. Not without trying something, _anything, again_. He has only ever known what it is like to try, try, try. Furious attempt after furious attempt. Woo him with words and with wildly successful gloomy old plays. With expensive dates to restaurants with white tablecloths and good wine and candles on the table. With live music and careful, perfectly polite dates to public parks, museums, art galleries, cafés.

Try, try, try.

And he knows why they couldn’t be something more, something bigger. But that had been then and this is _now,_ in the very real moments before the end of the world and everything on it. Even in the midst of such effacing nothingness Aziraphale had said _no_.

Perhaps he had been wrong about everything all along.

He’s an optimist and he’s hopeful and he’s trying— he’s really, _really_ trying— but he is running out of options, out of time. He opens his eyes and knows they’re coming— Hastur, Ligur, maybe someone else. Here to his flat to drag him down to Hell and make him pay for this, all of it, all of his spectacular fuck-ups. And he can’t go down just yet. Not without trying. Again. Try to get Aziraphale off earth and try to escape himself. Even if there’s nothing between them. _Try, try, try._

He stalks to his office, to his desk, clear of focus and clear of intent. There’s a small hope there, a tiny victory he had won once some fifty-odd years ago, stashed in his safe. Holy water in an angelic thermos, the most innocuous atom bomb. There had been a thought once of using it for suicide— take a shot, dissolve down, become starstuff— because what is the point, really, for any of this without the one thing that has ever really mattered? The one perfectly and horribly uptight little bastard of an angel who regularly rebuffs his advances in the most polite and prim of ways. Ways that are so obtuse and so devastatingly charming, so oblique, that he cannot help but forgive him, try again, love him anyway.

 _Love_ _him_.

The word sticks to him like a fever. He cannot sweat it out. He is sick with it and has _been_ sick with it for millennia. A frustrating and completely, wholly divine sickness.

He grits his teeth. He will not drink the holy water. He _cannot_ , obviously, because there is an angel in Soho who refuses to fucking leave the planet, and Crowley will not let him burn up with the earth when the demons inevitably win.

Because they will.

So he pulls on gloves. Ones meant for industrial strength solvents and corrosive chemicals. Ones that come up to damn near the elbow. There’s an apron of a similar sort, manifested out of nothing, pulled on over the kind of lab coat he had seen in a movie once, only made black instead of white.

The thermos feels heavy in his hands, heavier than it had those fifty-odd years ago, weighed down by time or intent or maybe even something more insidious, something like memories that had culminated in nothing.

And it’s an odd thing, that he can smell and _feel_ more than anything when demons enter his building. It’s the burn of hideous brimstone curling up in his sinuses, or maybe it’s the damp. The feeling of a basement creeping up beneath his door.

He uncaps the thermos slowly. A bucket on his desk and tongs at the ready, uncertain of how much holy water it even takes to dissolve a demon. A drop? A bathtub full? Would a bucketful suffice?

His heart is beating on the roof of his mouth, all the moisture gone out. His teeth hurt and his jaw aches but his hands don’t shake, not for this. He’s cool, he’s _fine_ , he’s _collected_. He has seen enough heist movies, enough _Home Alone_ , enough Sunday morning cartoons. He knows how this will go.

He hopes.

He tries.

Try, try, try. 

He grips the tongs, takes a healthy step back, reaches for the—

—door, stinking as it is of sulfur and maybe something else, some other demonic excuse for adrenaline.

 _I forgive you_.

As if that would work. As if that would absolve Crowley of the black he wears, would strip it off his wings. It wouldn’t, it _hadn’t_ , not this time and not any of the times before (said in earnest, said under his breath - said in between bites of food and seconds on the clock. _I forgive you, I forgive you, I forgive you_. _Please work._ )

And what had Crowley said? Something about Hell having found out that they were onto him, that they had known about the Antichrist and their own fantastic mucking of it up, the way they had bungled it so completely and not been the wiser for eleven whole years.

It had taken Aziraphale something like five whole minutes to realize what Crowley had said.

 _The forces of Hell have figured out it was my fault_.

His heart stutters. He feels sick.

There had been a plan to have a word with the Almighty— calmly explain the situation and the current scenario they have found themselves in. Of course She would understand. She is a loving God, an _understanding_ God, and She would surely forgive them for this. They had, after all, been trying to help. Goodness will recognize goodness. The attempt had been made to save the earth, Her children. She would help. She _would_.

So he had gathered the candles and gathered the chalk, had pulled back the carpet on the floor. And it had taken him something like half a circle to realize that he had not heard from the Almighty in many thousands of years. Not since Eden and the whole mess with the wall, the flaming sword, the escape of Her first two humans out into the great blue beyond.

She would most decidedly _not_ be happy to see him. In fact, he could not remember _any_ of his colleagues or celestial compatriots happy to see him in the last few thousand years. Not in any real sense.

Except one. Who is currently _not_ celestial and who is currently in a rather great deal of danger. One who most assuredly would not be spared by the divine and holy hand of God Herself. She wouldn’t rescue a demon. She _couldn’t_.

But he could.

He had blown out the candles.

It had tripped something— the thought of danger, of Crowley being _in it_. A latent and buried proclivity that belonged to principalities perhaps, something ingrained. Something that came from watching the black-clad back of a certain demon for six-thousand years. An imprint maybe. An instinct.

So he has come here, to Crowley’s flat, hoping beyond hope that he had not yet fled the planet or been accosted by demons or _worse_ (and Aziraphale remembers suddenly sitting in a car with a demon in Soho, red lights flooding the interior, passing him a kill-switch wrapped in plastic, lovers kissing in the background and taunting him, taunting _them_ — with their easy affection and fleshy affirmations)— a thought that Aziraphale definitely does not wish to think about. Because that will entail him somehow finding an entrance to Hell (he knows where it is, of course. Crowley had taken the same elevator down to his head office in the same building that Aziraphale went _up_ to his for many, many years now). It will entail him speaking to the manager, the… Lord or Lady or whoever is in charge of higher management down there. It may entail an exercise in power that Aziraphale has not stretched out in many hundreds of years. Smiting. He can still do that, he can try.

So it is with something like panic that he smells the fresh and acrid, flatulent odor of demonic activity in Crowley’s building. An aroma that he has never once smelled on Crowley himself or, if he had, had been in the most pleasant and minor of ways. A residual haunting of head office sticking to him. Like the barest hints of sulphur off of deviled eggs.

(Marvelous names humans come up with.)

He is somewhere between hunger and anxiety when he sees them— down the long and all together too concrete hallway, ringing the doorbell before kicking it open, slipping inside.

He makes a run for it, twice in as many days, and can hear already their voices down the hallway of Crowley’s flat.

“ _Croooowly.”_

“We know you’re in here.”

He reaches the door and can hear Crowley through it, sounding surprised.

“In here, people.”

Ridiculous, juvenile snake— Aziraphale’s hands shake, anger and irritation layering on top of the panic— taunting the enemy when the enemy is in his _house_. Crowley had spent far too much time in the cinema, had seen far too many Buster Keaton pictures. He is far too brave, too brazen, too suave and too _stupid_ , risking his life like this when he could be escaping to another planet.

The protective instinct flares hot.

He pushes his way through the flat in time to see Ligur stepping through a doorway, to see the slow-motion tip of a safety-orange bucket of water fall from above. It seems to hover there, mid-free-fall, as if hesitant to show Aziraphale the contents therein. Like a miracle, he thinks, a blessed salvation.

And then reality speeds forward, all at once, yanking him along behind it and suddenly there is Ligur screaming, Hastur screaming, an utterly silent void where Crowley’s voice had once been.

 _Holy water_.

His breath catches in his throat, sticks there. He cannot breathe. He cannot do anything except stand, rooted to the earth, watching with a stunned finality at what holy water actually does to a demon.

_Absolution._

Memories of his thermos race through him and he hopes that Crowley had been safe— how had he decanted such a liquid and had any of it splashed on him? It might not be too late if it had. He could strip the clothing off if it had soaked through, he could suck the water off Crowley’s skin with his mouth. Like venom from a snake bite.

Hastur is still screaming and the noise of it combines with the unholy smell of Ligur dissolving, bubbling, the putrid color of demonic ichor sizzling in the dim light of Crowley’s flat. An orchestra of morbid instruments.

“You—“

Hastur manages one syllable and half of an arm raised, finger pointing, leveling it at what Aziraphale can only presume to be Crowley and before he can dissect his emotions a superheated protective energy balls in his stomach, condenses, _explodes_. Raw, unhinged power, anger, _hope_.

And then it reverses, syphoning back into the center of his chest and then _outward_ , all of it, a brilliant beam of pure holy white light, bright enough that there are no shadows left anywhere in Crowley’s flat— bright enough to—

—light the entire room, light Hastur and his atrocious wig on pure flaming fire before he disappears completely, sizzled out into a greasy black stain on the floor beside the oozing remains of Ligur.

His eyes ache even behind the glasses— the light had been holy in energy, a fact that has left his small amount of exposed skin the faintest bit raw, as if he has just experienced the mildest of sunburns. His brain seems to fast forward, lurch into the present, and he is all of a sudden confronted with the fact that a beam of holy light had just infiltrated his flat— a side effect of the holy water dumping on a demon, perhaps. Or maybe God had finally decided to play a hand in the game called life and had chosen now of all times to lay down an ace.

“Crowley?”

Crowley’s heart moves faster than his brain (it always has), and his tongue (too long, always too long and tying itself into knots) twists itself around a single name with far too many syllables, garbles it into nothing.

Not an effect of holy water on demon. Not God jumping back into his existence. Something else. Some _one_ else.

And then he walks through the door. All five-feet and ten-inches of him. All white curls and pink cheeks and spiffy little bowtie barely askance. He had just torched Hastur into a barbecue stain on his floor and yet Aziraphale looks remarkably unruffled, perhaps even a bit dismayed at the mark he had left behind. He probably thinks it to be terribly rude.

It’s not the right reaction, of course it isn’t, but a heat Crowley had hitherto only experienced while watching Aziraphale eat arcs from throat to belly to hips and settles somewhere between his thighs. And for all the times Crowley had watched James Bond movies and had fantasized about being the rather suave protagonist with his expensive suit and cool car, rescuing the damsel and sweeping them off their feet, taking them into the bedroom— he finds there is something to be said about being rescued himself.

“Aziraphale,” he tries again, and this time his mouth works, his tongue cooperates.

Aziraphale looks up to see him, as if surprised to find him there, whole, uninjured. His eyes go wide and his mouth opens in a sustained inhale, taking two steps toward him, arms outstretched—

—and then he stops, pauses, looks him up and down.

He blinks.

Crowley is… quite fine, it seems. Better than fine, really. Perhaps even _good_.

Aziraphale’s mouth feels strangely dry, his heart is oddly loud. There is an uncommon energy pushing through his veins, half battery acid, half concentrated heat. It pools and gathers in his belly, his thighs, straight down into his sex. An effect of the smiting, perhaps. Or seeing Crowley after a charged interaction of their own.

“Crowley,” he breathes, and can feel himself swaying, dizzy.

“Angel.”

He moves out from behind the desk, all six feet of him. All perfectly coifed red hair and long legs and dark glasses. It takes Aziraphale a moment to register that he appears different because he is wearing gloves, of a rubberized sort, and a matching apron, a black lab coat with a high collar that nearly brushes his jaw. He looks… dangerous and unhinged and a bit mad, really. A bit desperate.

The thermos is on the desk, behind him, still uncapped, and Aziraphale has a striking desire to smite that object too.

“Are you— you’re _here_ ,” Crowley is saying, has _been_ saying, and Aziraphale is still suctioned onto the idea of this strange prophylactic suit, unable to stop looking at it.

It snaps into place a moment later.

Crowley had been exercising safety. Finally. For _once_.

Emotion bubbles in his stomach, his chest. He feels like laughing or perhaps crying and so he does neither, just stands stalwart and perhaps a bit stiffly.

He is not certain whether it is from so recently smiting something or the knowledge that Crowley had finally demonstrated some sort of care for his own corporation that makes him do it— makes him stumble half-blind and nearly wheezing straight into Crowley’s oddly gloved arms and up into his face.

“Stupid serpent,” he says, once, breathlessly, and then takes Crowley’s narrow face between his hands and kisses him.

The reaction is a stunned one, from both parties. It seems to catch up to him mid-kiss what he has actually done and he yanks himself back, nearly trips.

Crowley follows after him, dark glasses smudged and sent akimbo by the wayward kiss. He catches Aziraphale by the shoulders.

“Angel,” he breathes, steadying him, seemingly nonplussed by the kiss, as if he had been expecting it or something close to it for a very long time now.

“Sorry—“ Aziraphale gasps out, one hand grasping at the strange rubber glove that is holding him by the shoulder and the other attempting to straighten his waistcoat, propriety remembered. “I should not have—“

The word gets bitten down and swallowed by Crowley’s mouth, pressed back into his. The demon’s lips are surprisingly soft, and gentle, and before Aziraphale can determine whether that quiver is coming from Crowley’s lips or his own he pulls back, shocked.

“Sorry,” Crowley says, as if surprised by his own boldness. “I shouldn’t have—“

Aziraphale returns the favor, pushing into him with enough force that Crowley takes a step back, licking the word off his lips.

They pull apart, take great heaving breaths, stare at each other in shock.

“Are you—“

“Yes. Are _you_ —?”

“Very.”

“Why did you—“

“Too dangerous,” Aziraphale manages, breathless. “Never should have given you—“

There are hands up by his face, cradling his jaw as if he is something delicate and precious, tilting him toward another kiss— more chaste this time, more gentle. And then a forehead butts into his, their bodies sliding up close, close enough to feel—

—an unmistakeable hardness, a heat, their hips slotting together, the dull edge of the desk pressing against his back.

It’s a dream, it’s a _dream_. It cannot be real. This isn’t happening.

Crowley breathes down between them, eyes still closed, feeling the warmth and mass of Aziraphale through a layer of thick rubber and maybe that’s why it feels like a dream— _not real_. Aziraphale would never have done this, he would never have walked in and kissed him full on the mouth, would never be hard against Crowley’s hip, wanting him, wanting him.

He imagines that he has died— perhaps the holy water had dripped on him at some juncture and he is now deceased, obliterated, floating in the cosmos. If this is what a lack of corporation is like he should have taken that shot of holy water a _long_ time ago.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale breathes, and for all this is a dream his lips feel awfully real. The angel’s hips move, shift, clearly feeling Crowley’s answering hardness, locked down against his leg.

“Angel.”

“We don’t have much time, my dear.”

He snaps his eyes open, pulls back, looks down.

Aziraphale is pink and breathing heavily, cheeks flushed, chest heaving. He looks over at the charred stains of Hastur and Ligur on the floor across from them, as if weighing a decision. And then he looks back, to Crowley’s face, a hand coming up and pulling at his glasses.

“Much time?” He asks, and can feel the world sharpening back into focus without his glasses on.

“The world’s ending,” Aziraphale says, and licks his lips.

“Never got a word in with the Almighty, then?”

“No,” Aziraphale says, and shifts in his arms. “I’m afraid not.”

He isn’t dreaming. It’s real. The world is ending and Aziraphale is in his arms, pressed up against his chest. Crowley drops his hands, leans back.

“Oh,” he breathes. “Fuck.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says. “Perhaps we should.”

Crowley blinks, uncertain, and gets half of a syllable out of his open mouth before Aziraphale is kissing him again— with teeth and tongue, this time— smashing him back into his desk.

He makes a sort of desperate noise into it, broken in half, hungry, and then turns Aziraphale in his arms, switching their position.

“You want—” He can hear himself asking. “Really?”

“Really,” Aziraphale answers back, hands pulling at Crowley’s collar, the strap of the apron. “Off, _off_.” He gasps in between kisses, a trail of them leading down his jaw, sucking into his neck.

“Always wanted to, you know,” Aziraphale says, and six thousand years of flirtation hit Crowley squarely in the chest. He makes a hideous sort of sound into Aziraphale’s mouth, desperate and relieved and unsteady. So very, very unsteady. “Not much point in pretending I don’t anymore.”

He hadn’t been obtuse. He had known the whole time.

A storm of emotions thunder in his chest. Elation and disbelief. Relief and aching vindication. He could scream or maybe cry, swallow Aziraphale whole.

“Me too,” he says, instead. “Go— Sat— _someone_ , _me too_.”

The strap goes around his neck and then down and there are Aziraphale’s arms around his waist, fumbling at the tie behind his back, frenetic.

“You were careful,” he’s mumbling in between kisses, _bites_ , sucked in against Crowley’s neck. “Careful.”

“I went slow,” Crowley says back, and it still doesn’t feel real, not quite, suctioned into the disbelieving heat of this moment. “You told me,” he gasps out in between kisses, “I go too fast.”

Aziraphale leans back and looks at him, hair disheveled and lips swollen, pink, eyes wide and disbelieving.

“Well you certainly aren’t now,” he says, and his gaze hardens into a challenging stare. “Hurry up.”

It takes the air out of the room, out of Crowley’s chest, and then before he can question the reality of the moment he sinks to his knees, gloved fingers tugging at Aziraphale’s fly, desperate.

The motion gets stilled, his left hand pulled up and Aziraphale is staring down at him with hooded eyes, dark and wet with secrets and sex. He holds his gaze as the glove gets pulled off his hand and then a kiss is pressed to the pad of his fingers.

Crowley’s breath hitches, his lungs ache. His peripheral vision seems to solidify, congeal, narrow down to just Aziraphale leaning back against his desk, sucking the tips of Crowley’s fingers into his mouth.

He’s moaning— _someone_ is moaning, maybe both, maybe Ligur’s dissolved essence is moaning too. It’s a highly debauched image, one that feels like it is short-circuiting Crowley’s brain. To see Aziraphale spread against his own desk, thighs parting, mouth parting, taking his fingers into his mouth and moaning like he has wanted this, wanted this.

It’s electric, intense, a _dream_.

He does not know how this goes.

This had always been a fade-to-black, an M-rated fiction, a whisked-away off-screen moment. He does not know how this goes.

His hand shakes as Aziraphale releases it.

“Hurry,” he says again, and the buttons on his waistcoat strain beneath his heavy breathing.

Try, he thinks. Try, try, try. Make it good. Woo him with kisses and with really good sex, with blow jobs given on knees in supplication. He unzips Aziraphale’s trousers, tugs them and the underwear underneath down around his ankles. He will most likely not be having another go at this. This might be the end. The first and the last.

The stretch of muscled thigh nearly unwinds him— thick and white and furred and flushing pink along the inside, strength apparent in the shifting of his weight. He had intended to leave it like that— _hurry_ , Aziraphale’s voice reminds him— but he has not seen Aziraphale’s bare legs in many years, maybe hundreds, and the thought of not ever getting to see them again solidifies into an unbearable weight.

He unties the shoes, lifts the pale ankles, pulls them off. And he presses a kiss to the inside of each fuzzy pale knee as he tugs the trousers down and then off entirely, Aziraphale’s hands impatient at his ears, his hair, his neck.

“Crowley,” he says, naked from the waist down but so very proper from the hips up. “If we are going to do this we do need to hurry, I don’t—“

Crowley takes him in his mouth.

Aziraphale gasps, his eyes roll up closed.

The key to soothing the angel’s anxieties, it seems, is a mouth around his cock. If Crowley had known he would’ve offered this up sooner— blowjobs after bad notes from Gabriel, after agreeing to raise the not-quite-Antichrist, right up there on the garden wall, the first time.

Crowley makes a broken sound, quiet and disbelieving and he’s _heavy_ in his mouth. Hot and thick and he’s _real_ , this is _real_ , his tries had succeeded, somehow, someway.

Crowley pulls back, kisses at the tip of him, pushing with soft hands at his belly, his hips, gentling him back onto the desk. Aziraphale lies back, propped up on his elbows and looking down at—

—Crowley with desperation, with tightly strung want and a need that makes his teeth hurt. It’s been so long, _so long_ , dancing around each other with barely concealed flirtation, going on so long now it had felt less like courtship and more like marriage. Aziraphale knows him, _knows him_ — knows how Crowley drives too fast and cares too little about everything _but_ him, Aziraphale, the very lucky angel that this demon had decided to love.

His heart hurts, it beats too fast.

“Hurry,” he says again, and gets to watch the fantastic vision of Crowley’s now tousled hair between his own pale thighs, working at his sex and then his balls, further down between his legs.

“ _Crowley_ —“

He is going to burn up, melt down. There is a similar surging energy that he had felt while smiting Hastur welling in his chest and he squirms on the desk, staring at the ceiling. And then there is a tongue working him open. Prying him apart.

His vision of the ceiling swims, condenses. He is burnt down to sensation and pleasure, a graceless mountain, something profane. He does not know how to contain it.

“Please,” he is saying and does not realize it. “Please, please, please.”

He cannot see what he is doing, can recognize only by touch when the mouth pulls away, the tongue retreats. There is a thick and unusually smooth girth pressing into him, eased by some sort of miraculous slickness.

Aziraphale’s hands squeeze into Crowley’s hair. He tugs, voice locked in his throat.

“Is this okay?” Crowley is saying softly, more sweetly than Aziraphale had previously thought him capable of. “Can I?”

And Aziraphale cannot find the letters to tell him, breath still lost and he gulps down air like he has been drowning this entire time. He inhales again and is nodding, squirming—

—frighteningly alive, perfect, incomparable. Aziraphale’s thick right thigh shifts and wedges itself over Crowley’s shoulder, opening himself up.

“Angel,” he breathes, sucking kisses into the insides of his thighs, one gloved hand held steady, waiting for permission— because all of the _hurry ups_ in the world have not prepared him for Aziraphale’s acceptance, _finally_.

“Yes,” he says, at last.

There is a strange, highly tuned noise in the air, escaping Crowley’s throat. He tries to swallow it. He can’t.

“Yes,” Aziraphale repeats, and it sings along Crowley’s nerves.

A yes without conditions— and he whispers a tiny demonic summon of lubricant into his skin— a yes with fine print ( _I accept you, accept this)._ Capital letters. Aziraphale’s thighs are tight around Crowley’s ears, his fingers twisting in his hair, his heel pressing along the shoulder blade. A very formal and stubborn period for both punctuation and emphasis.

“ _Yes_.”

It seems to catch up to him that he is still wearing the glove, and he has the hysterical thought that if Aziraphale is holy ground— and he is, Crowley knows, the holiest— at least he is wearing protection.

“Does it hurt?” He asks, twisting his hand, spreading more lubricant.

“ _No_.”

Aziraphale shifts relentlessly, squirming on the desk.

“More. Please. Yes. _Hurry._ ”

He adds another finger, barely, easing what must be a remarkable stretch with kisses lathed against his cock, sucking the tip into his mouth. The noise Aziraphale makes in response kicks the breath out of Crowley’s lungs, disbelieving and raw and he wants all of their clothes off between them. Skin to skin. Let touch ease this into permanence.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale huffs out his name in annoyance and frustration, shifting erratically in a way that is clearly asking for something else, something more. “Hurry.”

“Really?” He asks again. “Really?”

“Yes.”

He pulls his fingers free. He shakily finds his feet. He wedges himself between those strong thighs, those fuzzy knees, and Aziraphale grabs at his right hand as he does, pulling the glove off as Crowley’s left fumbles at his fly, yanking on the zipper.

“I didn’t—“ he gasps, his hands shaking as he slicks himself with a miracle and lines their bodies together. “Shouldn’t have happened like this,” he manages, and leans down until their chests are together, heartbeat to heartbeat.

“Later,” Aziraphale breathes, lying, hands cupping around his ears and holding him steady, always, always. “You can make it up to me later.”

“Later,” Crowley promises— knowing such a time doesn’t exist and yet thinking anyway of fancy hotel sheets and the wine he would have spoiled him with, _later_ , _after_ , _somehow_ — and pushes his way inside.

Their foreheads press together, they gasp out matching cries.

Crowley opens his eyes to find Aziraphale’s steady blue ones already looking back at him, so very very close.

It’s too hot, all of it— Aziraphale’s body and his stare, the way his mouth is saying Crowley’s name, over and over again. And Crowley had been baptized in flame but nothing had prepared him for the heat of this moment, the sound of Aziraphale ushering him forward. _Hurry, hurry_.

He moves in him, gasps against his mouth. They bite at each other’s lips and shiver out nonsense syllables. It’s too much, it’s too full of grace. Demons are not meant to contain so much pleasure. They are not meant to vessel this holy ecstasy. He will surely burn up. Melt down. Him and the earth and everything on it. Maybe this is how it ends.

“Hurry, hurry,” Aziraphale is saying, over and over again, mindless, blue eyes hazy and unfocused. There is a fine unending tremor to all of his muscles, Crowley’s too, reverberating like an earthquake. End times.

“Yes,” he says, and hopes Aziraphale understands that when he says _yes_ he is saying yes to anything, always. Yes to how this had happened and yes to their future, whatever it is, however it looks. Death or dismemberment or the stars.

It’s a punishing pace, too fast even for Crowley, his lungs burning, his ears roaring. His right hand scrabbles for purchase along the top edge of the desk, a counterpoint to cling to, his left wedges between them, something for Aziraphale to push against. Trying and willing to do anything that Aziraphale wants, needs, desires.

Try, try, try.

“Oh, _oh, oh_.”

The pleasure is immense, immeasurable. Tightly compacted and voltaic and something about the angle of the desk and their bodies is resulting in a near incomprehensible string of words from Aziraphale’s lips. Over and over.

Crowley squeezes his face into Aziraphale’s neck, sucking desperate kisses there, words of promise. Trying his damndest to get Aziraphale there first— _try, try, try._

“Crowley— Oh—“

Aziraphale’s eyes blow briefly wide, eyebrows drawn together, muscles squeezing and locking up tight. Crowley leans back to look at him, to ride him through it— make it good, make it good, make it good.

“Oh,” Aziraphale says one more time, looking surprised, as if he hadn’t expected it to feel like this. “ _Fuck_.”

It’s the profanity out of Aziraphale’s impossibly prim mouth that does it— a magic trick he had not been prepared for— and Crowley gets sucked in behind the wave of Aziraphale’s orgasm, heat spilling up between them.

It suspends time and maybe space and they arch against each other, Aziraphale’s hands twisting in the fabric of his shirt. Squeezing and releasing and Crowley has enough mind, as he comes down from it, to press grateful kisses into Aziraphale’s cheeks, his forehead, his chin.

They shudder and shiver against each other, breathing heavily, eyes closed. And then reality seems to sharpen, slide back into focus.

Crowley leans back, unwilling to open his eyes just yet.

“Angel,” he says, and can feel his eyebrows pulling together. Don’t fuck this up, he thinks, _don’t._

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says back, with an incredible amount of softness in it.

Crowley opens his eyes.

Aziraphale is flushed and pretty and _perfect_ , gazing up at him dreamily.

Not a dream, he reminds himself, _real._

“We should probably get a bit of a wiggle on,” Aziraphale says, and has the audacity to shimmy his hips.

It’s still electrifying to feel and Crowley bites down hard on the inside of his cheek to stifle his reaction.

“You can’t say things like that when I’m still inside you.”

“What?” Aziraphale asks, his eyes still not quite focusing. “The wiggle on?”

Crowley can’t help it, he smiles despite himself, letting their foreheads kiss together.

“Yes,” he says softly, a yes with capital letters and with fine print ( _I love you. I accept you)_.

“Well, we should,” Aziraphale whispers back. “World’s ending, dearest. We ought to at least try to save it.”

“Say that again.”

“We ought to save it?”

“No.”

The back of Aziraphale’s hand brushes against Crowley’s cheek, a wry smile twisting up his lips.

“Dearest.”


End file.
